


Tying Knots in Frayed Nerves

by LittleWriterWitch



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Boypussy Stiles Stilinski, Canon-Typical Violence, Claudia Stilinski Feels, F/M, Gender Issues, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Knotting, M/M, Magic and Science, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Menstruation, Morally Ambiguous Stiles Stilinski, Multi, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Pheromones, Sexism, This is becoming progressively darker and I cannot stop it, Unreliable Narrator, slight daddy kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 14:53:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5590426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleWriterWitch/pseuds/LittleWriterWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But, Stiles can deal. He is fine with what he is, who he is. He bleeds once a month or so, dealing with cramps and the undying urge to rip his uterus out. He has a few days every year that he spends cooped up in his bedroom with porn and his own hands to keep him company.</p><p>His driver’s license reads “Beta Male.” No one is any the wiser. Life is going well…</p><p>Until suddenly it is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Half Hitch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Malapropian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/gifts), [charlottecjhlvr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottecjhlvr/gifts).



> *ba dum tiss*  
> I have no idea what I am doing.  
> Feel free to yell at me on [tumblr](http://little-writer-witch.tumblr.com/).  
> Happy New Years!
> 
> (This work in unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.)

Stiles had come to terms with what he is long ago. He has been at terms since he was seven, when his mother first explained to him what a “special” boy he was. She was sick then, wilting like flowers without water. She had held his hand that day, her fingers gentle around his tiny appendage.

He had been at terms when he went through his first heat at age eleven, curled up in his bed for three days. The pain he had expected, but not the blood. He had screamed when he saw the red smears between his thighs after the cramps had first woken him up. His father had called the school with a claim of the flu.

The thing is, while Stiles is fine with what he is, the rest of the world is not. Society is made of an overwhelming majority of Betas— _ normal _ humans without reliance on pheromones and mating bonds. Betas marry other Betas, and have little Beta babies.

Yet, sometimes exceptions happen. Sometimes, oh so very rarely, a Beta couple will have an Omega baby. Genetic anomalies according to  _ normal _ society. Soft creatures with sharp minds and even sharper pheromones. One in a few million are ever born genetically Omega.

Stiles is one of the  _ lucky _ few.

Although, he would not call Omegas in general  _ lucky _ . Being an Omega does not mean someone will get special treatment as described in many YA and harlequin novels. He has seen news stories about hate crimes against Omegas, has read about the horror stories of government experiments done in the early twentieth century.

So Stiles keeps it a secret. No one needs to know what lays between his legs, anyway.

The only people who so much as have a clue are his father, Mrs. McCall, Dr. Deaton and Scott. His mother had confided in the people she trusted best with the secret about her son’s gender. For as long as Stiles can remember, his checkups have been done under Deaton’s gentle and watchful eye. Scott is not sure about his best friend, only ever catching a glimpse of Stiles when they were younger. It is a confidence that he knew of but never asked, and Stiles never told.

With the help of Deaton, Stiles has been on suppressants since his first heat. Really, the man is a saint when it comes to Stiles’…  _ omegan needs _ . The herbal concoction decreases his pheromone production and slows his cycle altogether.

Rather than having heats every few months like he normally would, Stiles has them once a year at worst. Periods, however? Stiles has those on the regular. Hey, he has a vagina and a fully functioning uterus. Mother Nature still does her duty and visits him every so often.

But, Stiles can deal. He is fine with what he is,  _ who _ he is. He bleeds once a month or so, dealing with cramps and the undying urge to rip his uterus out. He has a few days every year that he spends cooped up in his bedroom with porn and his own hands to keep him company. 

His driver’s license reads “Beta Male.” No one is any the wiser. Life is going well…

Until suddenly it is not.

Apparently, werewolves are a thing.

Stiles did not see that coming, but sometimes he feels like he should have.

The first time Stiles meets an Alpha, he is equal parts silently terrified and turned on. Peter Hale is something out of a bodice ripper, with strong hands and razor smiles. He is also a level of batshit insane that Stiles refuses to touch with a ten-foot pole.

Because, while his body says “yes”, Stiles’ mind says “Politely fuck off.” When Peter offers the Bite, every cell in his body screams for it. Yet, his mind shudders at the idea. No matter how his blood may warm under the Alpha’s touch, Stiles refuses.

Peter is the werewolf that turned Scott. The monster that mauled Lydia. The man that had threatened his friends and family. And Stiles refuses to open himself to that kind of person.

He does not tell anyone about the excitement he feels as he watches Peter burn. No one ever thinks to ask.

Derek is not much worse for Stiles than Peter was. Sure, there is a connection, something somewhere between allies and begrudging friends. There is a spark, and sometimes Stiles likes to think that it could give way to flame under the right circumstances.

However, he knows that those circumstances will not come any time soon, or at least not with the way that things have gone as of recently. Between kanimas, murderous old men, and the hell that is high school, Stiles barely has enough mind to make sure that he takes his suppressants every day.

Then the Alpha Pack comes to town, and it all goes spiraling down from there.


	2. Sheepshank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support! I greatly appreciate it.
> 
> While I am not as lost as I was before, I can admit that I still am not 100% certain of what I am doing. [The internet should be taken away from me on a good day, really.]
> 
> (This work is unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.)

 

There are few things in the world that Stiles truly hates. Periods are one of them. The cramps, the blood, the cravings, _the cramps_.

They are hellacious. It is as if his uterus is punishing him for every asshole thing he has ever done to anyone. Sometimes Stiles swears that one day he is going to wake up to a tiny baby alien bursting out of his stomach.

Stiles knows that he is only a few days away from his period. The levy is about to break. Repeat, the Communist flag is on the horizon. He can feel it in his bones, not unlike the way he can feel a sneeze coming up. Only, this is more of a “Help me, my body is turning on me” feeling and less of a “oh goodness, my nose is awfully ticklish” feeling.

His skin feels taut, pulled too tight over his flesh. His stomach is somehow both in knots and insatiable all at once. Really, he is not trying to be a bitch—wow, pun appreciated but not intended—but if Scott talks about Allison one more time, Stiles is going to rip his best friend’s furry little throat out with his teeth.

(Stiles will be the first to admit that _maybe_ Derek has rubbed off on him. No, not in _that_ way; not that Stiles would _mind_.)

He wants to groan and nearly does when he feels heat bloom in his gut. Oh, yet another wonderful part of his pre-red-waterfall week. He is horny. Like, really horny. “Take me on the floor, I swear I’ll be a good boy, Daddy” horny.

It is worse this time, mainly due to the sudden surplus of Alphas in Beacon Hills. His hormones? Yeah, they want a piece of that—never mind that said Alphas are all _Hannibal Lecter level_ psychopaths, but then again his vagina has not cared in the past (see: Peter Hale).

Stiles can feel the pull in the depths of him. The pull that he felt with Peter, later with Derek, amplified to eleven. He has woken up to wet sheets and a fire in his belly, the sweet scent of Omega soiling his bed. If this keeps up, he will have to invest stock in Gain, Summer’s Eve, and Kotex, just so he can keep up his charade. He has all but rubbed his skin raw with Beta pheromones— _bless Deaton, may he forever be his lovely and archaic self—_ in hopes of masking his own scent.

Under normal circumstances, he would not worry as much. Beta olfactory senses are not strong enough to truly differ between secondary genders based on scent alone. They have no need to be able to detect Omega or Alpha pheromones, because they have no need to bond. But _werewolves_? Beta or not, they could tell you if Beta Joe a few blocks down the street has a hard-on using _only_ their noses.

So, yes, not only is Stiles in pain and horny as absolute fuck, he is afraid. Knowing his luck, the truth will come out any day now, and it will come out in the worst way possible. Because, fuck werewolves.

“You know, I would seriously suck a dick for some curly fries and a milkshake right about now.” The words slip out of his mouth unbidden, garnering the attention of not only Scott, but a few members of the student body as well. At this point, he cannot bring himself to care. If he is going to be known for something, it might as well be the bromance of the century he has with Scott.

Speaking of Scott, he looks like he may be choking on his own saliva. Wait, can werewolves even do that?

“Hey, buddy, I’m kidding. No dick is getting anywhere close to this mouth. Although, in _all_ seriousness, curly fries. The food of champions.”

It is going to be a long day.


	3. Bowline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is slowly becoming much darker than I originally intended. 
> 
> **Chapter Warnings:** Stiles' thoughts about himself and his gender are dark. Self-deprecation, sexism, and other not-good things ahead.
> 
> (This work is unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.)

On the list of things that are not okay, Stiles is fairly certain that he is somewhere amongst the top fifteen.

He should find Scott. He should call Derek. He should warn the others, do _something_ other than hiding like a coward in the boys’ bathroom. But, no, here he is, holding back whimpers as he tries to calm down his damn ovaries.

The Alphas are in the school. _The Alphas are in the school._

Stiles is all but shaking, hands unsteady as they grasp the off-white tile of the bathroom sink. His stomach churns in his panic, head pounding to the war drum of his heart. Minutes earlier, he had passed them in the hallway. Twins, not much older than himself. He had only seen them in passing, profiles barely caught when he turned his head. Yet, he did not need to look at them to _know_.

Their scents had been enough to knock the wind from his chest. Sharp, yet heady, not exactly unlike gasoline. The smelled of power, of violence and of potential.

Stiles shudders at the memory, grappling to turn on the cold water. A few splashes on his face, and his breathing is somewhat back to normal. The water slips down the sides of his face in icy rivulets, in reality doing very little to quell the heat bubbling in his flesh.

A glance up to the mirror tells him exactly what he worried would be true. His skin is flushed, a dusty rose skimming over the tops of his cheeks. His pupils are blown wide, the whiskey brown a thin ring around the endless black. His mouth is parted as he pants for breath, lips an almost obscene red.

He looks like the spitting image of an Omega about to go into heat.

He looks like a _whore_.

His stomach clenches at the thought, a chill running down the length of his spine. Because that is what he would be in everyone knew, right? One hundred and forty-seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bone, just made to be someone’s little bitch.

The mirror nearly shatters under the force of Stiles’ hand, a spider web of cracks destroying his reflection. The sound echoes through the almost empty bathroom, the thump and hiss of breaking glass followed by the gentle pitter-patter of a few pieces falling into the sink.

His hand aches, red blooming over his skin from where a few shards sliced too deep.

_Good_. The pain is as good as it can get. Stiles has something to focus on other than the unfurling warmth in his belly and the dampness between his thighs.

_One. Breathe in_.

He digs his thumb nail into the wound, partially to dig out a tiny sliver of glass and partially just to feel.

_Two. Breathe out._

He dips his hand under the running water, washing the red down the drain.

He hears the bathroom door open, the soft squeak of rusty hinges protesting and the thump when it closes. Stiles does not pay it much attention, too focused on his hand for the moment. Too focused on his attempt at focusing on what should matter more.

_One, two. Breathe in, breathe out._

He stops breathing altogether for a good twenty seconds. His hands shake in full force now, eyes trained on the shiny glass in the sink below him.

The brothers bracket him, one at a sink on each side. Stiles can just see them in his peripherals, while their scents blanket him.

“You don’t look so good,” the one on his left comments. He does not sound the least bit concerned—not that Stiles expects him to be. If anything, the Alpha sounds mildly curious.

“Maybe you should go to the nurse. That might need stitches,” Righty says, and suddenly he is all too close, reaching down to grasp Stiles’ wrist with gentle fingers.

Stiles yanks his arm away as if he has been burned, body tense and hands balled into fists. His teeth are bared, hackles raised as he snarls out, “Don’t _fucking_ touch me!”

The Alphas look almost as shocked as Stiles feels about his outburst. The one on the right backs away, seemingly cautious. Any other time, Stiles would have laughed—the big bad werewolf backing away from the little, defenseless human.

He is out of the bathroom before either twin speaks, retreating with his hand clutched to his chest and his tail between his legs.

The nurse believes him when he says he tripped and accidentally collided with the mirror. She is sympathetic when he feigns a migraine and is happy to send him on his way home.

Stiles has Deaton on the phone by the time he is pulling out of the school parking lot.


	4. Sheet Bend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the late update, but unfortunately, my internet has been cut off and school just started back. (So many assignments, so little time!)  
> Thank you all for your comments and kudos; they make me unbearably happy. 
> 
> (This work is unbeated. All mistakes are my own.)

The drive to the Animal Clinic is quite possibly one of the longest rides of Stiles’ life—or, in the very least, it feels like it. He is already on the verge of a panic attack by the time he reaches the first stop sign. He holds the steering wheel in a death-grip, gritting his teeth at the sharp, grounding pain that shoots through his hand.

There is a current just beneath his skin, buzzing and thrumming like a swarm of bees. His distress is nearly palpable; _poor, little fucking helpless Stiles_.

He can only imagine how he looked to the twins back in the bathroom. Angry and scared, bleeding in more than one sense of the word, all snarls and bared teeth and hints of too-sweet pheromones. They had seemed shocked—though, the question is, were they shocked because of his reaction to them or because of what he is?

Dr. Deaton is already prepared when he arrives, haphazardly parking and all but bolting to the door on trembling legs. The door is closed and locked behind him, the welcome sign flipped over to read ‘ _Closed._ ’

It only takes a minute or so for the good doctor to herd him into the back, and Stiles is all too happy to let him, taking shelter behind the mountain ash barrier that protected the clinic. He sits on an examination table, watching as Deaton went to fiddle amongst a cabinet of _something_ —Stiles is not certain what the doctor keeps in his clinic, nor is he in the mood to inquire.

“I need you to breathe for me, Stiles, or I may have to administer a sedative,” comes the detached tone when Stiles’ shaking does not stop.

He spares the doctor a wry smile, showing more teeth than necessary and shoving his hands into his pockets. “I think I may need that sedative if today gets any worse, Dr. Deaton.”

There is a fondness in the elder man’s gaze when he turns back, returning to the examination table with a tray of items: a small bag of mountain ash, a pendant of some sort, herbs and spices Stiles can neither recognize nor name. “You are going to be fine.”

The words are meant to reassure, Stiles thinks, but all they do is stir a blistering ire and bitter antipathy in the pit of his stomach. “Maybe if I could have my sexual organs removed, I might be.” Laughter dies on his tongue, stuck partly in his larynx, acrid and harsh. “I mean, Omega’s are only good as baby-makers and bitches, right? There would be no use for an Omega without the parts needed. No womb, no problem.”

Deaton sighs softly, wordlessly, and an uneasy silence flutters about the room. Against his better judgement—not that Stiles really has any of that at times like this—he continues talking, “I thought that the suppressants would work. They’ve _always_ worked. I stopped producing pheromones, my periods and heats were becoming shorter and farther between. I was so close to being normal!”

He ran his uninjured hand through his hair, breathing just on the ragged side of quick. “And then the Alphas come to town over the summer, and I swear, I could _feel_ them the day that they came to Beacon Hills. I can feel them now, and it hurts. My heat is coming too early, my cramps feel like I’m fucking dying. I don’t know what to do—”

Stiles effectively manages to silence himself when Deaton turns and gazes at him expectantly. “What you are feeling now _is_ normal, Stiles,” and, oh, do those words through Stiles for a loop the size of roller coaster.

He goes to ask—how, why, really what the _absolute fuck?—_ only to be silenced by the doctor asking a question of his own, “Do you know what the purpose of an Omega in a pack is?”

“To carry on the Alpha’s legacy, make little baby werewolves?” The words drip with sarcasm and bite, but only draw a small snort from Deaton, who is currently mixing a concoction of rather pungent herbs in a bowl.

Stiles is met with dark eyes for a moment, and he recognizes the affection in that gaze—he remembers it from the days when his mother brought him to the clinic when he was barely able to tie his own shoes. “You aren’t wrong,” Deaton admits. “Yet, that is but a small part of what Omegas do for a pack. An Omega is the core of their pack. While many stigmatize them as defenseless and solely sexual beings— _bitches,_ as you put it—they are much, much more than that.”

The herbs are set down for a moment, the doctor turning to look at him directly. “Omegas, both human and shifters, have a peculiar talent when it comes to magic. They are the cement that binds a pack, the maker and breaker of bonds amongst pack members. There is a pull between unmated Alphas and Omegas, yes, but that is due to genetics. Your body recognizes the possibility of a mate, the potential of a strong pack. While your suppressants may have worked before, your body is working overtime to make your interest known.”

“So my body is basically telling my suppressants to hit the road while trying to tip the Alphas off about my Omega-bits?”

“Essentially, yes. Your body has forced a resistance to your suppressants, which is uncommon but not entirely impossible given the situation. The pheromones you are beginning to create are to pique the interest of potential mates. Your heat coming early is simply a side effect of your suppressants no longer working as they should.”

Stiles is brought back to the bathroom for a moment, the look on the twins’ faces. The way they hovered around him, as if they were drawn to him. He shudders, and looks away from the man before him. “I guess they’re interest is pretty piqued at the moment.”

Deaton nodded, the movement caught in the young man’s peripherals. “I am putting you on a new suppressant. It will be enough to stave off your heat for another few months. However, it will not meddle with your pheromone secretion; doing so could cause negative side-effects on your immune system, as your body will try to fight off these suppressants as well. For that, I have a charm that you will need to wear. While somewhat rudimentary, it will be able to hide your scent, from werewolves or otherwise.”

Some days, Stiles feels like he could just hug Deaton. Today is most certainly one of those days. Yet, all he can do is sit on the examination table, staring wide-eyed at the doctor. “I… really don’t know what to say, doc.”

“You don’t need to say anything, Stiles.” His voice is gentle, and his smile, small. “I told your mother that I would help take care of you. I don’t plan on breaking that promise any time soon. You are a good soul, like her.”

Stiles takes the charm when Deaton holds it out, feeling the buzz of it in his palm, not unlike the way the mountain ash had felt at the Jungle back when Jackson went crazy-lizard-man on everyone. He places the chain around his neck, tucking the charm under his shirt so it rests comfortably against his skin. “Thank you,” he whispers, voice thicker than he had hoped.

Deaton’s hand becomes a warm, settling weight on his shoulder in the next breath. “There is something else I should tell you regarding Alphas and Omegas,” he admits, the detachment he had earlier now gone. “I know that this may sound outlandish, but if you are in a situation alone with the Alpha pack, do not be afraid to reveal that you are an Omega. Alphas are… designed, per se, not to cause harm to Omegas. As I told you earlier, the core of a pack is an Omega, and hurting an Omega goes against the very nature of Alphas.”

“That doesn’t sound outlandish at all; it sounds insane. Both Peter and Derek have hurt me plenty—”

“But did they _know_ , Stiles? You weren’t creating pheromones at the time, were you?” (Honestly, he hates to admit that Deaton is right.) “You told me about the night Peter Hale offered you the bite. You said no, and what did he do?”

Stiles swallows at the memory—the look in Peter’s eyes, he had never been so afraid that someone _knew_ than he had been when his wrist had been held up to a mouth full of fangs. “He listened to me.”

“ _Exactly_. While Peter may not have been explicitly aware of your status, even in his half-feral and blood-drunk mind, he took your rejection without protest. His instincts knew enough, and he stopped with you, when he had not with any before.”

After a few moments of silence to allow the words to sink in, Deaton continued, “Omegas are not the feeble creatures you have been led to think them to be. In the times of ancient Sumer, Omegas were raised to be priests and priestesses and were revered as gods. They ruled entire civilizations. There has been evidence found at temples where Alphas were sacrificed. It wasn’t until more modern times that the way of thinking you are familiar with arose. When Omegas began to become scarcer amongst humans, they were suppressed. You have power that no other person here has, Stiles, whether you realize that now or not.”

And, suddenly, it _clicks_ , a moment of vivid and beautiful Technicolor behind Stiles’ eyelids. And he knows.

Stiles leaves the Animal Clinic with a bag of mountain ash and a bottle of pills in his backpack, a magic necklace thrumming over his heart, and a plan already formed whirring in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the talk of the role of Omegas in Ancient Sumerian culture, I will admit that this was inspired by the _Epic of Gilgamesh_.  
>  In Tablet VI, Ishtar (the goddess of fertility, love, war, and sex) proposes to Gilgamesh, asking him to be her husband. He responds with a refusal, mentioning the fates of her previous lovers in which she turned them into animals. In truth, it means that she killed them in the end.  
> During the times of Ancient Sumer, priestesses truly were revered. The high priestesses had choice of the men in the cities, and would take one as a "husband" for a period of time. During this time, the man would lay with the women to produce offspring. At the end of the period, the husband would be sacrificed, and a new man would be chosen as to broaden the gene pool.   
> Women were, in fact, rulers. One fine example of this is in _The Descent of Inanna_. Inanna (which is actually another name for Ishtar) is described as a ruler of seven cities. It has been debated if some of the gods and godesses described in texts such as this were actually high priests and priestesses--often times, rulers and people of high stature were seen as divine. If interested, you can read one translation of _The Descent of Inanna_ [HERE](http://www.soulrebels.com/beth/bos/inanna.html).

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to the [Steter Network](http://steternetwork.tumblr.com/) for all of their help with this.
> 
> I would love to hear what you think!


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